


Opportunities Taken

by Casafrass



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: George gets a lil drunk and he’s not supposed to so, M/M, Modern AU, Ringo is the greatest, TW punching, That is all, but I really liked Remy’s prompt so kudos to her, in my defense I have no idea what I’m doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28356810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casafrass/pseuds/Casafrass
Summary: The prompt: The Beatles lost a record deal to Rory Storm and the Hurricanes but attend their victory party for free drinks— I mean, out of courtesy, ahem, yes.John and Paul tell George to 1) not embarrass them, 2) not get drunk and 3) absolutely NOT hook up with Rory’s cute drummer.He doesn’t listen.
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 9
Kudos: 51
Collections: Starrison Holiday Gift Exchange 2020





	Opportunities Taken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rufusrant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufusrant/gifts).



> This is for @rufusrant, my luv my luv. I hope you enjoy!

_“Rory Storm and the Hurricanes cordially invite you to a casual house party in celebration of their new partnership with Decca Records-”_

John shook his head with a growl, quickly crumpling the cream cardstock. 

“Can ye believe the nerve of these fuckin’ wankers? _Ooh, look at us, we got a record deal, you didn’t!_ Piss off, Rory, I know yer name’s Alan and up till last year, you were livin’ in yer mum’s bloody basement.” 

Paul sighed around a cigarette, rolling his eyes. 

“We already said we’d go, John, there’s no use in getting upset all over again.” 

“I’ll get upset if I wanna, don’t tell me what to do.” 

“It’ll be fine, there’ll be birds and lots of booze. Plus, if we play nice, we might get a favor in return.” 

“Look, ‘s not _me_ you need to worry about,” John said, squinting at the vaguely Paul-shaped blob laying on the couch. 

“It’s always you I need to worry about, John. You’re the only one who ever causes trouble around here.” 

“Name one time.” 

_“ONE-”_

“No, wait, nevermind.” John shook his head. That was a battle he was not going to win. 

“Look, at least I’m not the one who was lovestruck by their little drummer and cocked up the solo,” he said instead. 

“I wasn’t _lovestruck,”_ bit George from the recliner, snarl showing a glimpse of fang. 

“You were _moonin’_ over him like ‘e was a chips cart and ye fucked up She Loves You.” 

“Alright, alright, nothing we can do now. George knows better, it’ll be fine,” placated Paul.

“I’m not gonna do anything with ‘im, _God._ I barely even talked to him. Doubt he’s any better if he’s hanging ‘round Rory.” 

George was being genuine. He was pissed; not as much as John or Paul, but substantially. They all wanted to succeed; there was no question about that. 

“And, you know, yer not gonna drink much, right?” asked Paul, treading lightly. 

“I can drink till I get my stomach pumped if I wanna. Not me mum.” 

“Well,” began Paul. “Thing is, one drink you‘s fine. Two drink George is okay too. Anything past that though, and you tend to be... _flirty.”_

George crossed his arms. 

“What are ye trying to say?” 

“He’s trying to say that ye act like a slag when ye drink, and we don’t want ye fuckin’ the drummer and embarrassing us.” 

“John!” 

“Well, it was never gonna get through his thick head ‘less ye spelled it out, Macca.” 

“For the last bloody time, I’m not fucking anyone!” 

“We know _that,_ son,” John snorted. 

Before George picked up a lamp and possibly committed a number of serious crimes, Paul’s phone rang on the counter.

He jumped up, happy for the interruption.

“‘Lo?” 

_“Hi, Paul. Is, um, is John there? John Lennon? I tried to phone him on his cell but it didn’t go through.”_

“Cynthia? Uh…” 

John shook his head frantically, waving his arms like he was landing a plane. 

“N-no, he’s… he’s not ‘ere.”

_“Where is he?”_

“Where is he?” Paul echoed. 

“Wales!”

“Buckingham Palace!”

“Any cave!”

Paul glared at his mates’ very unhelpful suggestions. 

_“Paul?”_

“He’s, uh, he’s at the doctor’s.”

 _“Is something wrong?”_

“Er… he sprained his ankle, real bad.”

_“He seemed alright yesterday.”_

“Right, well, he was okay _yesterday,_ but this mornin’ he was on the toilet for too long and-and his legs fell asleep. You know how these things go.”

John immediately stepped in front of him, face twisted in disgust. 

“End the call _right fucking now.”_

Paul swatted at John’s hand, muttering annoyedly. George watched from the couch, wondering how soon would be too soon to go solo. 

_“Um, okay. Tell him to call me, won’t you?”_

“Sure, yes. Bye Cyn.” Paul hung up, falling back on the couch.

 _“What the fuck was tha’?”_ John bellowed.

“I panicked! I don’t like lying, especially to nice girls like Cyn. I thought you liked her.” 

“Even if I did, it doesn’t matter now, considering you made me sound like a bloody idiot!”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, John. Cyn and I know your stomach is lactose-sensitive.” 

“Stop talking.”

Paul rolled his eyes.

“Well, next time, answer the damn call yourself. You blocked her like a coward, ‘s not right. She’s a good bird.”

“I’m never letting you answer the phone again.”

“You guys went out last week; what’s the issue?” 

John stared at him for a long moment and Paul raised an eyebrow.

“Nothin’, it’s… nevermind. It just didn’t work out and she can’t take a hint.” 

“Well, maybe if you answered her calls—”

“It’s fine! She’ll be fine. We don’t even know each other that well, she’s in my Figures class and I acted on impulse.” 

“So you acted how you normally do.” 

“Yes, and I shouldn’t have asked her out. Happy? _God._ Get off my dick about it, Macca.”

“I wasn’t—”

John waved him off.

“Let’s figure out how we’re gonna deal with this party. We need to be a unit. Can’t let them try and break us up.”

“What are you on about?” sighed George.

“Rory and the Pinheads ‘ave only been doing covers till now. Might try and steal ideas from us since the record’s gonna want original compositions if they’re gonna go anywhere. So we gotta stick together.”

“That’s… actually very smart of ye.” 

“Ye, it happens.” 

“So how should we handle it?”

“Just don’t get cornered by one of ‘em. They’re crafty bastards. Especially that Ringo, don’t like the look of that one.” 

George managed to hold back a comment, knowing full well how that would pan out. 

“Fine, alright. It’ll only be for a little while. Sure nothin’s gonna happen anyway.” 

****

“What the hell are ye wearing?”

“...Jeans?” 

“Those are not _jeans,_ John, half the fabric is missing.” 

“That’s the style, _Paul._ They’re supposed to be ripped.”

“Yeah, _ripped,_ not ‘went through a shredder.’”

Paul shook his head, pointing to the hall.

“Go get a pair of regular jeans, ‘s fuckin’ winter.”

John rolled his eyes but obeyed, returning to his room. From the kitchen table, George, who was working on his second sleeve of biscuits, snorted a laugh.

“Can I help you?”

George shrugged.

“Seems like yer datin’, tha’s all. ‘S funny.” 

Paul made an odd face, nose wrinkling.

“Dating? We’re not.” 

“Yeah, I have eyes, ta very much. Just seems like you’re a couple is all. The way you lovingly boss John around like the control freak ye are.” 

“I boss you ‘round too.”

“Not _lovingly.”_

John returned then and George stood, dusting the crumbs off his shirt _over the sink,_ before Paul had an aneurysm. 

“Alright, fellas. No sharing songs, no drinking weird shite people offer ye, and no sleeping with the drummer.”

“Feels like that last one was directed at me.”

“Yer a prodigy, son.” 

They arrived at Rory’s house fifteen minutes late at John’s insistence to be fashionably late, though it didn’t matter since there were so many people there, no one noticed their entrance.  
John and Paul immediately set off together, John teasing Paul by flicking his ear gently and doing that spider-hand arm thing. 

George rolled his eyes. There should be an award for having the most insufferable bandmates. He’d win every year.

“Hey, man, how y’doing?” 

George was suddenly clapped on the back by an unfortunately familiar face.

“Hi, Pete. Get off me, ta.” George shrugged him off.

“Hey, we’re still mates, right?”

“Were we ever mates?”

They’ve been trying to get rid of Pete, their crappy drummer, for a while now. He didn’t seem to take the hint, calling and texting constantly. George had him blocked, claiming his phone was out of data whenever Pete happened to catch up with him.

“Sure we are.” Pete took a slurp of his lager, beery breath stinging George’s nostrils.

“Right… well, gotta take a piss. Bye now.” 

Thankfully, Pete didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss and accepted George’s excuse, stumbling away to interrupt a billiards game. The interaction only served as an urgent reminder to what George already knew: they _really_ needed a new drummer.

But whatever. He was here to get drunk and hopefully find a nice someone to shag.

George went ahead and helped himself to his first drink of the night: a simple Guinness. Someone had splurged for tonight; this wasn’t the usual shite offered at the dingy bars they played. And Mother Paul be damned— George was going to indulge. It was the least Rory could do after snatching what should’ve been their record deal.

He shook his head. He couldn’t believe he’d been as gullible as he was. 

_“Gonna use that?”_

_George glanced at the extension cord behind him, then unplugged it, handing it to the guy._

_“Ta, ‘preciate it. Name’s Ringo.”_

_“Ringo? That’s a Sesame Street character, innit?”_

_His laugh. God, his laugh had been incredible. George had felt a wave of something unfamiliar. It swept over him like when he went on a rollercoaster and the ride dipped suddenly._

_Ringo’s full belly laugh was all George wanted to hear forever. He hadn’t been able to stop his smile fast enough, grinning as Ringo leaned back, eyes scrunched in delighted amusement._

_“Maybe you’ve seen me then,” he replied, and that’s when George had noticed those magnificently blue eyes._

Someone bumped into him and George cursed as the beer sloshed onto his shirt. With a huff, he pushed through the throngs of bodies in the living room, on the hunt for the loo.

He ended up in the kitchen, where Rory was doing what looked to be twelve shots in a row, if George could count correctly. People were screaming raucously, clapping and whistling him on. 

Look, George liked a good buzz as much as anyone else. But what was the point of getting blackout drunk when the party had hardly begun? A waste of good liver cells, if you asked him.

He stopped at the sink, nudging aside a girl who was about to slide off the counter and into the basin. George worked on trying to clean out the stain as much as he could before giving up and shutting off the faucet. 

“Rory, mate. Think you’ve had enough.”

George turned at the new voice, eyebrow dipping into a hard glare.

“Oh, come on, Rings! It’s only a few! Lighten up, will ya?”

“You’ve had five vodka shots in ten minutes. Slow the fuck down, otherwise yer gonna end up in hospital.”

Rory, predictably, ignored his friend, continuing to throw back shots at the crowd’s goading.  
Ringo shook his head and stomped out of the room, unexpectedly angry. 

_Don’t follow him, don’t follow him, don’t follow him, d—_

George swiped one of the shots from the table (it’s not like Rory was keeping track) and drank, coughing at the burn. 

Vodka was not a favorite of his, but it got the job done. And he was still at two drinks; only tipsy, and definitely not anywhere near the dreaded Flirty George. 

He followed where Ringo had gone, but by the time he managed to push past a couple necking and some guy decorating the wall with Silly String, he’d lost sight of the drummer. 

Oh well, it was probably for the best. Wouldn’t want to risk anything, (though George refused to admit he was mooning over anybody). 

George returned to the sitting room where the crowd had grown. People were now dancing to some club music he didn’t recognize, but it was fast and as soon as George stepped onto the floor, a blonde bird gravitated toward him. She had a cute smile, with a gap in her front teeth; George liked that. Her hair was straightened, slightly mussed from dancing. And her eyes. They were large and a beautiful cobalt blue, framed by long lashes with lots of black goop. 

And sure, they weren’t the bluest eyes in the world, especially with all that sparkly shite, but George liked them just fine. 

Patricia, she said her name was, and George nodded, knowing damn well he wasn’t going to remember it by the end of the night. She pulled him in to dance and he held her hips, following her rhythm, trying not to be too crude in his moves. 

Patricia didn’t hold back however, pressing herself against George’s front, mouthing the lyrics. He played along, holding her tighter. 

This was what he’d come for, right? Have a few drinks, find a pretty bird. 

So why was he so damn distracted?

At the end of the song, she stepped back and pulled him to the refreshments table, pushing a beer into his hand. 

Halfway through the bottle, George realized he was now officially in Three Drink George world. But he didn’t feel any different. Paul had probably made that up in his head. 

“So, d’you wanna keep dancing?” Patricia asked, blinking those big eyes at him.

“We can do whatever you want, love.” She giggled, the apples of her cheeks glowing pink.

Huh. Maybe there _was_ something to Paul’s system. 

Patricia took his hand and led him down a hallway. She tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder and George squinted, trying to imagine how she’d look as a brunette. 

He decided it wouldn’t suit her very well.

God, what was the matter with him? He’d been just fine dancing. Patricia was cute, with her red skirt and ankle boots. Very fashionable indeed. George should’ve been all over her, like any lad would be, yet his head just wasn’t in it. 

And _then._ And THEN.

And then, a flash of something leathery and promising caught his eye. At the end of the hall, George could hear shouting. And it wasn’t the good sort.

Patricia was still trying doorknobs, trying to find a vacant room, but George took the chance to dip, shuffling away.

“Sorry, I need to- he’s my mate,” George quickly lied at Patricia’s look of confusion. 

He was rushing down the hall before he had a chance to think about it, making a beeline for where Ringo and another guy were standing, almost nose to nose. The guy’s pudgy face was red and puffy, eyes bulging. He was big and had obviously had a lot to drink, huffing something about a bird. George put himself between them immediately, shoving the guy back. 

“Alright, take it easy.” 

The guy pointed one sweaty finger at Ringo.

“Tha’ fucker was tryin’ to chat up me girl.”

“No, I wasn’t. I can get me own birds just fine, ta. Certainly wouldn’t wanna have one after they’ve been in proximity of _yer_ cock, mate.” 

George snorted and the man blearily turned his rage onto him.

“Think ‘e’s fuckin’ funny, do ya?” 

The punch never came. Instead, George was pushed to the side, and the arse’s meatball hand connected with Ringo’s mouth. 

Well. That definitely wasn’t going to do any favors for George trying to get past his crush _(yes, okay? He had a crush. Fuck off, Lennon)._

Ringo held his footing and reeled back, grin dangerous, a spot of blood tainting his teeth.

“Now ‘m not gonna take me rings off.” 

The guy was drunk and relied too heavily on his brute strength. Ringo quickly dodged his next punch, landing a solid fist on the lad’s nose. Meathead stumbled back, tripping over his feet and hitting the ground. 

“Someone cuff ‘im to the heater, let him sober up,” Ringo growled as a couple guys dragged the guy away. He turned and George got a full look at Ringo’s face. And _no,_ he did not like seeing him with a busted lip, but the way he’d swooped in had definitely thrown George’s resolve for a loop. 

“Why’d ye do tha’? Could’ve handled ‘im.” 

“No offense, love, but ye can’t weigh more than six stone, sopping wet. He would’ve knocked you on yer arse.” 

Now, that was just unnecessary. George’s ego didn’t need all this. 

Still, he pulled Ringo into the loo next door, pushing it closed with his foot.

“What’re y—”

George ignored him, turning on the sink and wrapping toilet paper around his hand, wetting it and cleaning Ringo’s cut. He hissed and George mumbled an apology. He’d never been very good at playing nurse. Paul was usually the one who cleaned John and sometimes George up after a fight. 

“Stupid of ye to tease him like that. But I laughed, he should’ve hit me.”

Ringo exhaled hard through his nose in a half chuckle. 

“Alright. Next time, you can take a punch for me.”

“Yer damn right I will.”

George dug through the medicine cabinet, searching for some antiseptic ointment. He was practically smushed against Ringo, their right sides lined up. George turned his head, and whoa, they were… too damn close. He could smell Ringo’s cologne and the rum punch on his breath. 

George half expected Ringo to shove him off, mutter a hurtful comment, but he just watched calmly, as if this was a part of patching up a mate. 

Well, they weren’t _really_ mates, George reminded himself. Ringo was an enemy technically, being in a rival band that had stolen their success. He shouldn’t even be helping him. 

“Think y’got all the blood there, luv. Did a wonderful job, really.” 

George pulled back slightly, shoving the ointment into Ringo’s hand. 

“Yeah, alright. Put this to help it heal. Should be fine.”

Ringo smiled, returning the tube to its shelf.

“I’ll be okay. ‘S not my first time getting punched in the face.”

“Part of life,” George agreed. 

Ringo laughed and George’s stomach did a swan dive to his shoes. 

“I s’pose yer right.” 

He leaned against the sink, studying George who shifted awkwardly, unsure how to stand or exist. 

“Sorry ‘bout yer band,” Ringo said finally. 

“Wha’?” 

“You guys are good, better than us really. They should’ve signed you on instead.” 

“Aren’t ye happy to have gotten a deal?”

Ringo shrugged. 

“‘Course I am, though I doubt it’ll last long. You’ve seen Rory, I’m sure. Can’t even make it through a full rehearsal most of the time.” 

“Jus’ get a new singer.”

“Nah, wouldn’t work. It’s alright, I didn’t expect much to come from this anyway.” 

George searched his face, wondering if this was some sort of trick.

“You puttin’ me on?”

“No, why would I?”

“‘Cause we _are_ good and we should’ve gotten the deal. And yer gonna run outta songs sooner than later.” 

“‘M not tryin’ to get yer songs, George.”

“Then why’re you tellin’ me ‘bout Rory?”

“Dunno. You three are talented an’ I like ye.”

“Y’don’t even know me.” 

Ringo smiled. 

“I’m a good judge of character.”

Great. George had already come into this party pining. Why’d Ringo have to be such a great guy on top of it all? 

“Me mates said I couldn’t go for you.” 

Whoops. That was definitely on the list of embarrassing things George wasn’t supposed to say. 

_This is why you shouldn’t drink,_ came a nagging voice that sounded suspiciously like Paul.

“Oh yeah? Ya poor thing, trying to resist my dashing good looks and charm.” 

George blinked bewilderedly. 

“Yer not disgusted?” 

“No, George. Been trying to feel you out since we first met.” 

Huh. This was an interesting turn of events.

“You weren’t, like, sent out to seduce me, right?”

“Yer givin’ Rory way too much credit, love.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

George shuffled closer, gnawing on his lip with a fang. 

“So…” 

“Yeah?” prompted Ringo. 

“Um.” 

Ringo took George’s chin in hand, resting one finger on his lips. George quieted immediately. 

“I’m gonna kiss ye now, love, if tha’s alright.”

“Yup,” said George, already closing his eyes. 

The door burst open before Ringo could move any further, revealing a pink-faced John being manhandled by a bitey Paul, whose mouth was currently locked on John’s neck. 

“Occupied!” George hissed, holding onto Ringo’s shirt in case he flew away. 

He supposed he should’ve been more surprised at the sight of his best mates all over each other but really, who was he kidding? 

John looked up, and, though blind as a bat he was, there was a part of him that knew exactly when to throw a fit, whether he could see the entire situation or not. It was an intrinsic part of the Lennon gene, and that was a fact.

His eyes locked with George’s, who realized that it probably would’ve been better if he and Ringo had snuck out on their own. It was entirely possible they would’ve gone completely unnoticed. 

An eye twitch, a growl, and then he was understandably raging against Paul’s hold. 

“What the FUCK are ye doing with him?” 

Paul turned bewilderedly and (George would have to send him a fruit basket for this; a true mate indeed) managed to haul John out of the bathroom before chaos was unleashed. 

“George, I’ll fuckin— let _go,_ Macca- I’ll deCIMATE THEM BOTH-”

As soon as John was safely out the door, with Paul’s “decimate? Where’d ye learn that one?” George slammed it shut, locking it. 

He leaned back, smoothing his quiff down and clearing his throat. 

“I take it those are yer mates.”

“Yup. They’ll be fine.” 

“Sure? I mean, if this is gonna cause a rift between you all…”

“Nah, John’ll get over it.”

“That’s good. I really didn’t wanna let ye go so quickly.”

“Sap.” George nudged him affectionately.

“Little bit.” 

George pulled him in for a kiss, taking care not to hurt Ringo’s cut. Ringo nudged him against the wall and George was gone, his mates be damned. 

“Hey,” George began once he’d caught his breath. 

“Mm?” 

“D’you know of any available drummers? We need a new one.” 

Ringo smiled against George’s cheek, patting his hip.

“Y’know, I can think of a few.”

**Author's Note:**

> “Sap” George @ me


End file.
